


I’m Sticking With You

by EvieSmallwood



Series: the midnight chronicles [4]
Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Again, But Also!, Fluffy!, M/M, confused boys!, i can’t stop writing this shit, pay attention to him, popchyk is a good boy, this is super angsty, two boys in a bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 13:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14593911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvieSmallwood/pseuds/EvieSmallwood
Summary: Of all the people in this world, Boris cares the most. His touches, his words, all of his effort. He cares about Theo. But beyond that, beyond caring, there lies the unspoken territory of something else. Something doors are opened to when an arm reaches out and pulls him close in the middle of the night, or when Theo feels himself go warm everywhere, from his skin to his bones; when he falls into that territory but doesn’t acknowledge its existence.They both know it’s there.They ignore it, though; they go on with how they are, they don’t speak of it.





	I’m Sticking With You

**Author's Note:**

> I had feelings at one in the morning and this is the result

Usually it’s not so pertinent, but day long it’s been with him; a heaviness that’s settled in the pit of his stomach, like a rock that’ll never leave him. 

Today, everything hurts. Breathing hurts, talking, laughing (why hadn’t she been able to laugh more? to live longer? what was fair about it, about any of it? where was the justification for her passing and why, still, does he feel such untempered rage when he thinks about how it could have been different?).

Theo stares at his reflection. In the harsh brightness of the bathroom, there’s nothing to hide behind. He hates what he sees, because he doesn’t see _her_. Not her stark freckles or her dark hair, not her soulfulness or the mischief that would dance in her eyes, unattainable unless you really knew how to make her laugh—knew the right jokes, the right moment (usually, after work, during the snack breaks they’d take when watching long movies in their dimly lit apartment—she wasn’t stressed then; it was as though the rest of the world didn’t exist, even though you could hear the city outside; it was just them).

He flicks the light switch and shuffles out of the bathroom, into the shadowy darkness of his bedroom. Last year around this time he’d still been stretching his arms out to see and feel, but now he doesn’t need to; he knows this house, he knows the people within it.

He knows Popper will already be curled up on the bed with Boris; he knows his father and Xandra aren’t even home and, given the time, probably won’t be joining them for the evening.

Theo circles the other side—his side—of the bed, and drops onto the mattress. He doesn’t lay down, but rather reaches for the iPod.

It’s playing a classical song; Chopin’s _Nocturne No.2, Op.9._

He bites his lip, glancing at Boris, who’s breathing is level and eyes are closed. Then, making his decision, he switches to something else and hesitantly reaches for the earbud.

The Velvet Underground.

It’ll always remind him of her; always kick him in the chest, knock him down, steal the air from his lungs like it’s doing right now.

Why he does this—subjects himself to the pain, almost leans into it, learns to live with it—Theo doesn’t know.

But he doesn’t stop it.

He rolls onto his side, facing the window. The sky is pitch black, visible through the slits in the blinds, but he can’t see the stars. Not tonight.

The world doesn’t get to be beautiful today. No one gets to be happy. He doesn’t get to be happy.

Before he knows it, his eyes are stinging. Theo curls into himself, bringing his knees closer to his chest. He feels so small, so fucking alone. It didn’t have to be like this; he shouldn’t be living this life. He should still be in New York, attending school with Tom and Andy, coming home to cheap Thai food and going to bed with an aching but full stomach.

Waking up in the morning to the smell of coffee, to her harried but genuine smile as she rushes around the kitchen, rambling on about work and friends and all the little random things that piqued her interest—or that she thought might interest him. 

He wants so badly—so much so that it hurts; like someone is squeezing his heart—for her to be here with him. For her to lean down over the bed and run her fingers through his too-long hair, for her to smile. “It’s okay, Puppy, I’m here. I love you.”

She’s not here. She can’t love him, wherever she is.

Or maybe she can, but he can’t feel it. Does that mean she can’t feel this, wherever she is? She can’t feel this monsoon of pain and longing and grief, suffocating him?

_I’m here, Puppy._

He remembers suddenly—almost strikingly—being about five years old and hiding in the broom closet, arms around his knees with some stupid shit eating grin on his face while she called out through the apartment, _Where are you, Puppy?_

_I’m here, mommy!_

She’d known exactly where he was; adults always did, in a way that to his child self was magical. A super power of some sort.

She’d opened the door and pulled him up, right into her arms, smelling of tea tree oil and oranges—from those little extract bottles she’d buy in the stands at flea markets. _There you are, I thought I’d lost you._

She can’t feel it, maybe. But he’s here, hurting anyway. Hurting for her, wishing things were different, bartering still in the back of his mind— _please if there’s a god, please make it better, let me go back in time and fix it, please please please._

Only silence. The quiet here is like a living entity.

Then, suddenly, Boris shifts. Theo sucks in a sharp breath, which has much more noise to it than he’d anticipated. It sounds like a sniffle.

The movement stops. Boris has stopped; frozen, hovering mid-roll.

“Potter?”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Are you crying?”

They’re not drunk, really. They each had a shot of vodka after dinner. They’re not high. There’s no excuse—none of the usual ones, anyway—for him to be so fucked up.

“Leave me alone,” he manages.

His voice sounds like shit. It’s very obvious he _has_ been crying, but the stubborn asshole in him—or maybe the part that’s dealthy afraid—doesn’t want to admit it.

Boris being Boris (annoying, persistent, determined), he doesn’t leave Theo alone. Instead, he scoots closer, hovering over him.

Their eyes meet. It’s then that Theo sees the concern; brow wrought with it, expression searching and a little agonised.

He probably looks broken. It’s how he feels, anyway.

“ _Potter..._ ”

It’s not necessarily anything (or maybe it’s everything; when he says it, how he says it—full of sadness for and with him, the same way his mom might’ve said _oh, Puppy_ after a fall in the park or an unexpected bad grade), but still Theo ends up sobbing.

They’re heavy. They’re painful. He folds into himself a little more with each one, refusing to look at Boris.

It doesn’t matter; thin arms encircle him, anyway. Hands gently run up and down his arms, fingers lightly threading through his hair, then back down his neck and shoulders.

The touches aren’t unexpected (they aren’t even unwelcome, and he knows that as soon as they start; the very idea ten seconds ago would’ve had the bottom dropping out of his stomach, but it’s different as soon as he feels them, knows he wants them). They’re warm, they’re...

They’re _intimate_. It’s as though, with them, though they’re only in consolation, Boris is bridging the gap between playful wrestling and those heated nights—the ones that leave them both gasping and moaning, shivering, limp.

There had to be something in-between, and if this is it, Theo isn’t really sure he minds.

All of this would almost be enough to get him to stop, to shut the fuck up—but the sadness is like an anvil on his chest. It lords over everything; the alpha emotion. Nothing can overtake it.

Boris’s nose brushes against Theo’s neck. “Is okay,” he whispers. “It is me, I am here. Here for you, no? Is going to be okay.”

His lips touch Theo’s forehead. It’s so good it makes his body fall apart right in Boris’s arms, and he can hardly concentrate on the fact that all he wants is for Boris to do it again; he’s too busy trying to catch his breath.

“ _Boris_...”

He must sound so pitiful. He must sound how he feels; cracked in half, mind on two tracks—one on this, on how his cheeks burn and skin tingles—and one on the hole in his chest.

Boris shakes his head. “Tell me what to do. I don’t know... I want to make it better.”

Two tracks. Theo looks at Boris’s lips; they’re parted, reddened, smooth.

But he can’t have it. He can’t have what he wants and he can’t have what he needs.

He looks away, ashamed of himself. _Stupid_ , it’s so stupid. Boris would never...

“You want me to kiss you, Potter?”

His gaze snaps back just as his breath catches. He swallows, startled. “What?”

“Is okay,” he says, again. “I don’t mind.”

And that’s when, like a train crashing into him, he gets it. He understands, suddenly, everything. All of the confusion is made so startlingly clear so quickly that his heart is crushed with little time for him to even process it.

Boris. Of all the people in this world, he cares the most. His touches, his words, all of his effort. He cares about Theo. But beyond that, beyond caring, there lies the unspoken territory of something else. Something doors are opened to when an arm reaches out and pulls him close in the middle of the night, or when Theo feels himself go warm everywhere, from his skin to his bones; when he falls into that territory but doesn’t acknowledge its existence.

They both know it’s there.

They ignore it, though; they go on with how they are, they don’t speak of it.

For Boris, Theo realises, it’s just being a friend. He’s trying to make it better. Theo is shivering, Theo has a stiff, Theo is crying. _Make it better._

It’s not... it’s not what _Theo_ feels, is it?

Even now, lying here with tears on his cheeks that’re growing cold and starting to tickle, he’s afraid to even think the word; if he’s too loud, Boris might overhear it, somehow.

“Hello?” Boris taps his forehead. “Theo?”

“No,” he manages.

It comes out rough, almost biting. He doesn’t wait for a reaction though; he merely pushes Boris off of him and rolls over.

“Potter—”

“Not if you don’t want to.” Even after he’s said it, he still can’t believe it. The words hang there between them, meaning a million things and more. “I’m not your fucking charity case.”

There’s a lull. It seems both of them have stopped breathing.

At the end of the bed, Popchyk’s head appears.

“Fuck you, Potter.”

Boris slaps the mattress. Then he’s punching his pillow into shape, flopping onto his back. Popchyk yaps excitedly, tail wagging. He scampers up and flails around between them, sniffing eagerly.

“Fuck me?” Theo sits up, absentmindedly pushing Popchyk off his lap. “Fuck you, Boris.”

“Oh? What have I done to deserve fucking, hm? I help you, you push me. _Podonok!_ ”

“You didn’t help me,” Theo denies. “You just screwed with me, like you always do.”

“Screwed with you?!” He sits up, now, too; swatting Popchyk away and scowling. “I asked you what you wanted!”

“Fuck this,” he mutters. It’s the most nonsensical argument they’ve ever had, and he doesn’t have the energy for it. What does _Boris_ have to be mad about?

“No, no,” Boris shakes his head, reaching for Theo’s arm before he can lay back down. “No way. You _speak_.”

“I’m not a fucking dog.”

Popchyk yaps again.

“Fine!”

He’s so sure Boris is dropping it that Theo actually yelps when he’s tackled; the next thing he knows, he’s being pressed against the mattress with his head at the wrong end, and Boris is straddling his waist. His hands come down, whacking Theo upside the head once and then twice.

“What the fuck?! Get off of me, Boris!”

“Not until you tell me what is the matter with you,” Boris flicks his nose.

Theo jerks away. “Asshole!”

Popchyk claws at Boris’s back, tugging at the fabric of his shirt with his teeth. Boris doesn’t even seem to notice. He’s breathing heavily, totally enraged, all pent up energy with no one to channel it on but Theo.

“Tell!”

“Go blow yourself!”

Boris whacks him again. Theo struggles, arms pinned, and manages to angle his leg so that he can squirm almost free.

His eyes catch the clock on the nightstand just as Boris is tugging him back.

12:03

A new day, and with it Theo can practically feel the weight being lifted from him; like a cloud drifting off or dissipating after a particularly nasty storm.

Then Boris falls against his back, trying to tackle him and failing because he’s so lightweight—a bird without wings, unchained, held down by nothing but loyalty.

Theo starts to laugh. It’s stupid, really. Nothing is funny, and everything is; it’s Popchyk with his incessant barking and Boris’s hands around his arm giving him an Indian burn. It’s the hour, it’s this lightweight feeling.

Boris stops, and the pain soon fades after. Theo’s laughter doesn’t.

He’s flipped onto his back. Boris blinks down at him. “Potter?”

She’s dead. He almost died, too. But it’s not necessarily that knowledge which strikes him, spurns him, gets under his skin and stays there, festering; it’s Boris’s lazy three am whispers, his lingering touches, and the intense stare he’s giving even now; dark, magnetic. It’s so heavy it makes Theo’s knees a little weak.

“ _Chertovski sumasshedshiy_ , what is the matter with you?”

“You are,” he says. His voice isn’t abrasive, though; as a matter of fact, it’s almost soft. It makes Boris’s brows draw together and in some way that pleases Theo.

He’s still pinned. Popchyk circles excitedly around them. Boris’s face changes so suddenly, if Theo had blinked at the wrong second he would’ve missed it.

“I wanted to,” he says, relinquishing his grip ever so slightly. “Always I want to, _glupyy trakh_. You are impossible, Potter.”

Theo shrugs. “So do it.”

“Now?”

“No, next Tuesday, yes n—”

He doesn’t finish. Who the fuck cares, though, when Boris is kissing him?

It’s not gentle; it’s rough, open mouthed, hungry and eager. Boris puts all of his weight on Theo, so that he can feel every taut muscle, and kisses him with enough passion to simply shatter Theo’s universe.

He doesn’t worry too much when he moans against Boris’s lips—only, somehow, that makes everything ten times more intense. Suddenly they’re tugging at each other, then Theo is on top, then Boris, and they’re both gasping for air—

Time stops. There’s nothing beneath him. He’s falling; off the bed and onto the floor, and Boris comes with.

He draws away from Theo, hair falling into his eyes, face flushed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fucking fine, just come back here.”

It’s almost like two planes meeting, or dimensions colliding, kissing Boris. There’s so much happening; so many sparks, fires, feelings. There’s a raging inferno spreading over the expanse of his skin. Boris’s hands are in his hair and then under his shirt, and then his shirt is gone. They’re all over him, rekindling every flame that dies out.

“Theo—”

“Don’t,” Theo tugs him back down, desperately soaking every last second of this up before Boris draws away and never returns. “Please, god, just fucking _don’t_.”

“But I just want to—”

“Boris—”

“ _Zatknis'!_ ” Boris pokes his side, quieting him. “I love you, you stupid fuck.”

Then, in an instant, all of the churning, suppressed, yet no less felt emotions are named. All of those things all twisted up inside Theo, unravelled with one word.

“You love me?”

“Yes,” Boris nods. “Just wanted to say, you know? In case you did not know already.”

“Oh.” He swallows, hand falling a little from Boris’s waist to his thigh. “I...”

“Is okay,” Boris shrugs. “You do not have to—”

“I love you, too.”

A grin. “No shit.”

“Fucker!” Theo slaps his arm. “I hate you!”

“No, no, no, you just said, I love you, Boris. I love you so much. You are my moon, my Badr, I will never leave you—”

“My _moon?_ ”

“Is romantic,” Boris shrugs. “If you are like the sun to me, why am I not your moon, hm?”

Theo feels himself blush. It’s so stupid, so cheesy. “The sun?”

“Yah, like, you know the song? The lullaby? Not Russian, but the nannies used to sing it to me, I think in Australia. _You are my sunshine, my only sunshine._ That one? Always it makes me sad, like you.”

“I make you sad?”

“Good sad,” Boris adds. “Like, I cannot live without you, sad. Sometimes I wonder what I would do, and I always feel the same way.”

“Boris...”

“Is just love,” Boris pokes his stomach. “You feel it too, no?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, I do.”

“Good,” his hands settle on Theo’s ribs. “Come to bed with me, Potter.”

Boris helps him up. Popchyk growls when they try to move him from his spot—curled up in the centre of the bed, a white ball that bites at their fingers when they get too close. Boris grabs him by the scuff of his neck and sets him aside, before settling against the pillows.

Theo hesitates, just for a second, and then lays down. Right next to him, without having to be pulled. He breathes in the smell of coffee and cigarettes and old beer, burying his face in the crook of Boris’s neck.

“I am sorry, Potter,” Boris kisses him—on the cheek, softly. “About your mother.”

Theo doesn’t say anything. He’s comforted, more than he has been in so long. With Boris’s fingers running up and down his spine, lowly humming a lullaby, sporadically pressing his lips to Theo’s face. He’s safe.

Two years since she died, and maybe he finally has something to really live for.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> also, feel free to check out my tumblr: @pavikovsky 
> 
> xoxo


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